


B-Day

by FuriousPoplar



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Birthday, Despite ostensibly being about them Frisk is barely in this, Fluff, Gen, POV Second Person, Post-Pacifist Route, Reader Is Chara, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 07:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8047063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuriousPoplar/pseuds/FuriousPoplar
Summary: Frisk's Birthday approaches.
You're going to do something nice for them if it kills you.





	B-Day

**Author's Note:**

> This one is a lesson in hubris. Because I realized, literally yesterday, that I wanted to do something for Undertale's 1 Year Anniversary, and ended up rushing this thing out last night. Now I'm sitting here just staring at it and I don't even know if it's worth uploading and like I didn't even edit it properly but gosh darnit I'm gonna do something festive whether it's a good idea or not.
> 
> Anyways, happy birthday, Undertale!

                You stop your hands dead in their tracks and sigh, staring thwartedly at the mess of blue and purple wool in your lap. It isn’t enough.

Frisk mentioned, offhandedly, that they’ll be one year older on the fifteenth. This was over a month ago, of course, but as of yesterday, the fifteenth is _this_ fifteenth, and every day that passes feels like a countdown clock ticking away. You can’t shake the knowledge that you’re running out of time.

You’ve been agonizing over something you could do for them ever since they told you, despite the fact that you knew they expected literally nothing from anyone. If you didn’t care, you could simply sit around and live your life as normal, and give them a de rigueur _Happy Birthday or whatever_ when the day finally rolled around. That’d be nice, you think, if you didn’t care. It’d make things easier, for sure. You wouldn’t have started knitting this scarf if so, and you wouldn’t be sitting here now, dreadfully aware of how thoroughly you already hated it even though it was only one third done. You’ll still finish it, however, because you’re sort of hoping that if you do enough mediocre things it’ll maybe stack up into a nice thing.

(You thought a scarf would be a good start— Asriel still wears the green and gold colored one you made him, after all this time. You’re shocked it even still exists. It was the first thing you ever made, after all, and the stitches are all loose and wonky because you still weren’t used to holding the needles in your hands yet. Frankly, it’s a shit scarf, and he should get a new one that isn’t about to unravel itself, but you always smile whenever you see him wearing it. So maybe, you thought, Frisk would enjoy something like that, too. But it’s just a scarf. It isn’t even winter yet. It isn’t enough.)

You slump a little further into your end of the couch. You count the blessing that at least Frisk isn’t here right now, to spoil what few surprises you can yield. Usually they’re always close by, but Mom decided to take them out for a haircut today.

“Did you just notice that you’ve been using the wrong color all along?” Asriel derails your train of thought with casual tenor, looking up and across the couch from the book that you had essentially forced him to read (because it’s really good, and it’ll assuredly bring him to hilariously pathetic tears if he actually finishes it).

You glance back down at the inadequate scarf, terror brewing in your heart. _Is_ it the wrong color? You had stolen their spare sweater to match colors off of and everything; did you seriously get the wrong one? But, no, you’re pretty sure it’s spot on. Probably. “I don’t believe so,” you state, quiet, calm and with a slight air of displeasure. Your usual tone. “Does it not look correct to you?”

“Oh, I wasn’t saying you had it wrong. You looked unhappy with… whatever it is that you’re working on, is all.”

Ah. You aren’t the best at keeping your expression neutral, anymore. You used to be, but it’s a skill that years of cushy surroundings have drained out of you.

“It’s a scarf,” you say flatly, eyes still on your lap, “I’m making it for Frisk.”

“Oh. Golly, that’s nice of you!” He smiles, and you recognize it the hopelessly innocent and dopey one that makes him look like he should have a tail to wag. “I still have the one you made me, you know! It’s not in the best shape, anymore, but it’s still really nice.”

You know precisely what he’s going to say next, and you take advantage of his brief pause to say it for him. “’I bet they’ll love it!’” You sing-song brightly in a crude impression.

“Um,” he stammers out. “Well, yeah, I bet they will. Are you making fun of me?”

You feign a gasp. “I would never do something like that! How could you accuse me of such a terrible deed?”

“Oh, fuck you.” He glances nervously around after he tells you off, worried that Mom might have heard him and his filthy tongue from all the way across town. You smile, pleased by his ongoing transformation into a bad-mouthed jerk like yourself.

“But, um, for real,” he falls back into his usual soft-around-the-edges inflection, “what’s wrong with it? It looks great to me.”

You frown. Right, the scarf. This stupid thing. “The problem is that it’s just a scarf,” you tell him, a bitter scowl on your face. “It’s a rather lame birthday present.”

“When’s their birthday?” He asks flatly.

You glance over at him, and he looks bored as if you had been reading him the back page of the newspaper. “The fifteenth. You don’t seem to care.”

He shoots you a petulant glare. “I _do_ care! It’s just… there’s nothing I can do. It doesn’t matter when it is, because it’s not like they _want_ anything. I can’t knit or anything cool like that, so all I can do is… nothing.”

You frown again, more sad than irritated. You place your needles and the tangled mess of one third of a scarf on the coffee table. “You feel like you owe them,” you ask, but it comes out more as a statement of fact.

He hesitates for a moment, bowing his head slightly. “Well... yeah.”

“I feel that way, too,” you admit, squeezing your fingertips together on the spots where they went red from gripping the needles too tightly. “I feel as though I’m in their debt and can’t ever hope to repay them.”

He follows in your example and heartlessly tosses his book to the side. “They don’t expect anything from you,” he informs, apparently of the belief that you weren’t already in the know. “You do understand that, right? Heck, if you give them something you made just for them, they’ll probably break down crying. They’ll treasure every day that it isn’t too hot to wear it. It doesn’t matter _what_ it is, really, as long as it was from you.”

Your frown worsens. He doesn’t truly understand. On some level, sure, you know he’s right, but…

That’s the problem. You _know_ that all you really need to do to make them happy is to keep breathing. You know that they don’t expect anything. You know that what little you have to offer is more than enough for them. It’s just not enough for you.

“I’m going to do something special for them,” you declare, accepting no argument. “I’ve no idea what, yet, but it needs to be special. This,” you gesture to the work-in-progress on the table, “they would be content with. But _I_ would not be. Do you understand?”

He gazes into the old fire burning behind your eyes and gives a weak laugh. “Can’t leave well enough alone, can you?”

You snort. “Azzy, this is _me_ you’re talking to.”

He grins and shakes his head; admitting defeat, you guess. He goes to pick his book back up, even though you’re pretty sure he doesn’t care about it and only started reading so you’d stop pestering him.

“You should help me,” you blurt out, surprising both him and yourself. He freezes mid-reach and turns to look at you with one eyebrow raised. “It… it could be… fun. Besides, you were upset that you couldn’t do anything for them, were you not?”

He shrugs. “I guess so.”

“So why not help me come up with something? It would be easier if we were both at it.”

He leans back towards the couch, empty handed. You can almost hear the idea rolling around in his head, and you’re a little offended that he didn’t automatically say yes.

“Um, gosh, I wouldn’t really know where to start. But…” he smiles at you again; this one is his optimistic, ‘excited-to-spend-time-with-Chara’ smile. You haven’t seen it in a while. It has been sorely missed. “It does sound like fun. So, um, partners!”

You wince, brief enough that he doesn’t catch it. ‘Partners’. You’re not exactly fond of that word. But, you do like seeing all his old enthusiasm, so you smile back and admit, “Partners.”

It should be easier now that you have him on board. But, well, he had a point; you don’t really know where to start, either. You haven’t known where to start for weeks, now. You guess you should probably finish their scarf, first things first.

 

 

 

“I’m going to ask you again, because you still haven’t given me a good answer; what are we going to be looking for, exactly?” Asriel demands, a blatant twinge of irritation in his tone. He’s standing decisively ahead of you and shielding you from the door to the shop, and you could probably point it out and ask him if it’s to protect you, and _oh, how sweet, my hero,_ but you actually need him to work with you here and he’s not going to do a good job if he’s all butt-hurt because you poked fun at him.

His continued expectant stare reminds you of the task at hand. Right, you did have a mission. It’s not every day you walk out to… well, you aren’t entirely sure what this place is supposed to be. It’s got the cramped size and inventory of a knick-knack emporium, the musk of a pawn shop, and the scatter-shot price points of a thrift store. On top of all that, it’s got ol’ Gerson, the Hammer of Justice manning the helm and laughing his old raspy laugh at who knows what. The bottom line is that he’s selling old, weird shit here and there’s a miniscule yet present chance that maybe there’s something Frisk would like.

Asriel gives a curt, fake cough and stares you down like you’re playing the main character, it’s a new scene and you forgot to say your line.

But fuck him, he can wait. Truthfully, you have no clue what you’re looking for. Something ‘ _nice’_ is all you had in your head when you left home, and now that you’re here and awkwardly staring in through the window, you think that you should come back when it’s _Toriel’s_ birthday, maybe, but there won’t be anything useful here today. Besides that, you and Asriel have a combined net worth of like twenty bucks and a pack of gum (You got the twenty bucks. Asriel spent his money on the gum), and if you remember anything about ol’ Gerson, the Cheapskate of Justice, then you won’t be able to afford a damn thing in there.

“This is mission control to Chara Dreemurr,” he says, voice raised and fingers snapping obnoxiously close to your face, “I repeat; _what are we doing here?_ ”

You roll your eyes in that ‘ugh, you couldn’t be more clueless’ way that he hates. “I’m going to answer your question with the exact and purportedly unsatisfactory answer as I did every other time; _I don’t know exactly what we’re looking for. Keep your eyes open for anything that Frisk would like_.”

He grunts disapprovingly. “Like _what_? Do you have an example, or are we just flying blind here?”

“The second one,” you chime, cheekily.

 

The bell above the door rings in a tone too low to feel welcoming as Asriel enters the store ahead of you.

Gerson, the Clerk of Justice, is quick to spot you, despite his likely failing eyesight. He greets you with a, “Top of the mornin’ to you, yer majesties!”, and normally you’d yell, or at the very least glare hatefully at anyone who called you that, but you’re willing to grant a cantankerous geezer like Gerson, the Old Fart of Justice, a free pass. “What are yeh looking for?”

He sounds sort of like a pirate, sometimes. Always has. You realize how badly you want him to call all the random crap lying around his booty, and giggle. Heh. _Booty_. “We’re only browsing, mister Gerson,” you reply brightly, dusting off your good manners.

“Eh, Alright,” he shrugs, “Jus’ keep it snappy, so you don’t hold up the line!” He laughs to himself again. There is no line, as usual.

You wander down the aisles with Asriel still a step ahead of you, scanning wildly for anything relevant. You wonder, briefly, where Gerson, the Hoarder of Justice, gets all this stuff.

You spot a box of Sea Tea, and remember that Frisk was rather fond of Sea Tea. Well, they hated the taste, but liked how it made them more energetic. So that they could avoid being beaten to a pulp better.

…Maybe you shouldn’t get them Sea Tea.

You look all the knick-knacks up and down, but most of them are really old and really completely lame. They’d be happier with the scarf.

You browse the ‘Digital’ section, which ends up consisting mostly of decidedly not digital vinyl records. You recognize some of the bands, but Frisk doesn’t typically enjoy stuff that’s old enough to have been sold on vinyl. Their musical tastes are more… bad.

You even, partly as a joke and partly because you’re curious, browse what appears to be a weapons display whilst your brother is off inspecting some trinket. There’s a cool, scratched-up bayonet on a little stand, and it makes you want to start a collection. There’s also a beat to hell pump-action shotgun propped up against a shelf with a splotchy, dark-brown stain on the barrel (you like the implication!)

“Hey Asriel,” you say venomously, hefting the shotgun up to your shoulder and leveling it on the back of his head. You’ve never held a gun (the intended way) before, but hey, you’ve seen a lot of movies. You rack the pump with a satisfying _Chhhack-Chlack_ and a shell pops out and rolls across the floor.

“Word of advice there, squirt, that one’s loaded,” Gerson, the Basic Firearms Safety Violator of Justice, calls out from the counter and ‘Wah-Ha-Ha’s again.

Asriel goes pale. You go paler. You put the gun back. You decide to stop browsing the weapons section.

 

You’re about to go get Asriel and leave when he stops abruptly and holds his arm out to ensure you do the same.

“What?” You ask, more as a reply than a question.

He reaches his hands out, slow and delicate as if he were trying to sneak up on a butterfly, and plucks a small, wood-furnished box from one of the shelves. He holds it out in front of you, cradling it in his hands. It takes a few seconds before you realize what it is.

“Oh,” you whisper, awash with an indescribable sentiment that’s both bitter and sweet at the same time. “It looks just like ours did...”

You think that it’s a bit smaller than your music box, but it’s the same color, has the same kind of faded gold trimming and it looks every bit as precious. It isn’t the same one, definitely— yours is sitting burrowed into an old, mossy statue, possibly still playing to this day. You reach out to it, as gently as he did, and wind it up.

The first note chimes, and you hold your breath, but on the second one you release it. The notes are the same, but the song is different. You don’t know what you expected.

“It’s beautiful,” he half-whispers, staring into his palms. “But it makes me feel kind of sad.”

“I think all music boxes are like that.”

He lightly shakes his head. “Ours wasn’t. It always made us feel better, remember? We used to keep winding it back up over and over again for hours until Mom or Dad got fed up and asked us to stop.”

You frown, somberly. “It isn’t like that anymore. Last time I listened to ours…” You don’t finish your sentence. There’s no need.

The song ends, and Asriel puts the box back, as carefully as he removed it.

“Did you find anything?”

He shrugs, defeated. “Nope. You?”

“No.”

You both share a disappointed nod and silently agree that it’s time to leave.

“Sorry mister Gerson,” you call out as you walk to the door, “we didn’t find anything, today.”

“Bah! Should’ve looked harder…” his face wrinkles up with what you assume is his version of a pout. “So be it, then. You kids stay safe!”

You smile one of your fabled genuine smiles as he ‘Wah-Ha-Ha’s one more time for the road.

 

 

 

You twirl the half green half orange leaf around by its stem, watching as it bends and flops back and forth through the air. The tree in your backyard that it fell from is weird. It reminds you a lot of the one that sat outside of Toriel’s home in the Ruins. It’s always the first to start losing its leaves, and they’re usually slow to grow back. But, it’s currently in the nice in-between period where it’s brilliant to look at and nice and shady to sit under.

“Okay,” Asriel pipes up, stealing your attention. “I got an idea. What if, after the party is over and they’ve gone to bed…”

Your mind races to finish his thought for him. After they go to bed, we _what_? What’s he thinking? You’re practically giddy; this is the first time either of you had a lead for _hours_.

He half-sighs half-groans. “What if we stuff them into a potato sack, drag them out behind the shed and tell ‘em about the rabbits.”

You grin like an idiot, despite the let-down; he finished the book after all. “That’s not a very good birthday surprise,” you counter.

“It wouldn’t make them happy, but it’d be what they deserve. Being all kind and making us want to do nice things for them… who do they think they are?”

You laugh. “Well, in all fairness, it wouldn’t be _good_ but it sure would be surprising.”

He laughs back, and it’s one of those new, creepier ones that he didn’t used to have. “You’re a great friend, Frisk. So, surprise!” He presses two fingers between his eyes and makes a sort of spittle-y _Pooshhh_ sound. He throws his head back, to accentuate the effect and bumps it on the tree. “Ow…”

“So did you actually have an idea, or did you just raise my hopes and then dash them with a mean-spirited joke about shooting our dear mutual friend between the eyes?”

“The second one,” he grumbles.

 

“You know,” he starts, dragging you out of your thoughts again. “Maybe we should have gotten that music box. Thinking about it now, they’d probably love something silly and sentimental like that.”

You nod. They would eat that kind of thing right up. Perhaps you had the right idea with the scarf after all. “Maybe we could order them a new frame for that picture on their nightstand,” you suggest, only sort of as a joke.

He sigh-groans again. “You don’t mean the one of all three of us when we moved in here, do you?”

“Of course I mean that one,” you reply, rolling your eyes, “I didn’t think they had any other framed pictures that they stare at for at least five to ten seconds every morning when they wake up.”

“They really are disgusting, aren’t they?” he says fondly.

“Definitely,” you agree. “Anyway, I think you’re on the right track. Something sentimental. We’re getting closer.”

His smile vanishes in an instant as he turns and looks you in the eyes. “Why do you want this so badly?” he asks with a muted hook of curiosity.

You stare back dumbly, taken completely by surprise. “I… already told you. I feel as though I owe them.”

He keeps looking at you, and you’re starting to feel the slightest bit uneasy. “I’m not buying that excuse, Chara. You’re not telling me the full story.”

You upgrade your stare to a glare. You hate it when he gets all… knowing. You sort of miss how ignorant he used to be. “It’s not an excuse,” you argue.

He just keeps staring at you. Jerk.

You sigh and look away. “Fine.

“Truthfully, debt is only a part of it. Mostly, I’m hoping that if I am able to give something back, even if only this once, that… perhaps it will make up for everything I’ve done to them.”

“What?”

You shake your head. He just doesn’t get it. “I’m an _awful_ friend. I’m constantly hurting their feelings. I’ve led them into so many mistakes. And I need so, so much from them. I need their time, and attention, and care, and they’re always dropping everything they’re doing just so that they can help me through some stupid, trivial problem I’m having that I should be able to deal with by myself but _can’t_. They take so much responsibility for me, and they’re so great to me all the time, and I cannot understand why they bother.”

“Chara…” he warns, “Don’t…”

You interrupt. “Don’t what? Tell the truth? Are you going to tell me that despite everything that’s happened, despite everything I’ve done, that you still refuse to admit that maybe you and Frisk deserve someone better?”

“Stop.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” you return the poisonous look he’s started giving you. “The bottom line is that I’m usually more trouble than I’m worth. Just because that doesn’t seem to bother either of you doesn’t mean it’s okay. They deserve—“

_“CHARA!”_ he shouts, and you jump. “ _Enough!_ I am not having this argument with you _again_!”

You shrink away from him and look back down to your leaf.

“Are you blind!?” he continues, livid and still shouting. “Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t seen the way that Frisk clings to you? The way they look up to you? How much they _need_ you? Do you think they’re stupid? Do you think _I’m_ stupid? Do you think that we just _don’t know any better!?_ Are you going to go your whole life thinking that you only have friends because they’re too weak to stand up to you? Can you, for _one_ day, stop dismissing every sign and every assurance that we give you to try and get it through your _thick skull_ that we _choose_ to care about you!?”

You don’t answer.

“You want to do something nice for Frisk?” he restrains his voice back down to regular volume. “Go look them in the eyes and tell them, without the self-loathing, that you’re willing to let them love you. God knows everybody else in your life has given up on waiting to hear that.”

His words hang in the air for what feels like hours. Gradually, you can hear the birds beginning to sing again, and the wind picking back up after they had both gone silent.

 

“I-I’m…” he cracks, maybe because of the silence, maybe because you’ve turned away from him. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s fine,” you whisper.

“No, it isn’t,” he insists. You look back over to him, and he’s bowing his head with guilt. “I stand by what I said, but I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

“You’re right, though. They… they do look up to me.”

He gives a sharp exhale in some loose approximation of a laugh. “Well, duh. You’re their favorite…”

You blink. ‘Favorite.’ You give him a sympathetic look, and he ignores it.

“I think…” he begins, almost wistful. “I think that if you just told them that you care, that it would mean a lot to them. They adore you, and they look up to you, but… they’re worried that maybe you don’t feel the same way. Maybe they feel like they have to prove themselves to you.” You notice, now, that he’s fiddling with his locket.

 

…

Suddenly, you get an idea. One that you can’t believe you didn’t have earlier.

“Hey, Azzy?”

“Hmm?”

“I have an idea for something we could do. Something from both of us, I mean.”

He shrugs. “Alright, shoot.”

You tell him. His eyes peel wide open, and he looks sort of like he wants to slap himself for not thinking of it first. He does, however, bring up the good point that it could be difficult tracking down the right person, and that it could even be more expensive than you could possibly manage pay for. But, you both end up asking what kind of friends you’d be if you didn’t at least try.

 

 

 

Your mom is a fantastic party planner. But, more than that, you admire her prowess as a tactician and as an employer of psychological warfare. The night preceding B-Day, she tells Frisk that there will be no bedtime curfew, and that they may stay up as late as they please. She explained that it was a longstanding tradition of hers to lift bedtime restrictions on birthdays, but you and Asriel both knew she was making things up. Hell, she even winked at you as she said it. She knew you wouldn’t say a word, even though you didn’t know, at the time, what she was playing at.

You understand in the morning when you’re standing downstairs in an excessively decorated living room with eight other people at nine AM. Typically, Frisk would have been up hours ago, and that’d have meant that such a surprise gathering would never have happened. But they fell for Toriel’s trap hook line and sinker, and burned themselves out playing video games until one in the morning.

(You have no doubt that it caused excruciating physical pain to Toriel to let them do this, but all good things require sacrifice).

After what feels like years of everyone forcing themselves to be quiet, Toriel finally finishes her magnum opus and calls them down. They’re still in their pajamas and sleepily rubbing their eyes when you and everybody else deafen them with a thunderous, _“SURPRISE!”_

They cry, they laugh, they cry again. They hand out hugs like candy. You’re no expert, but you’d probably describe them as, ‘happy’.

They’re spoiled rotten all day long. Their favorite drinks and snacks are over-stocked with decadent abundance, and you can tell there’s going to be thick leftovers. In lieu of a cake (which they have never been especially fond of), Toriel baked a terrifying butterscotch-cinnamon pie, roughly the size of an inner-tube (Where did she find the time to make it? How did she keep it hidden? You asked her, but she just smiled and tousled your hair. It’s a Mom™ secret). They are, predictably, the center of attention, and their little extroverted heart is practically beaming rays of golden sunshine from minute one.

Then, there are the gifts. They got quite the haul, this year. Undyne got them a pair of heavy-duty, steel-toed hiking boots (She described them as, “Great for peaceful nature-walks and kicking people in the shins!” much to your amusement and Toriel’s disapproval). Alphys brought a box-set of some supposedly super-rare anime series that must have been almost impossible to find. Sans, hesitantly, bestowed unto them the _Ultra-Expanded, Ultra Unfunny_ edition of his favorite joke-book. Said joke book was so endowed with wretched puns that it was several thousand pages long and weighed a bare minimum of twenty pounds (you’re a little jealous). It also happened to come wrapped in a way too large purple hoodie that you guess they’ll have to grow into. Papyrus, as usual, outdoes pretty much everyone and gets them two day-passes to an empty speedway, complete with high-performance racecars and a waiver of liability to sign. Asgore got them a flashy new gaming system; a typical, albeit lovely dad-gift. Toriel got them a new camera (something they’ve wanted for a long time, and you don’t know why. You hate her for obliging them, because oh god they’re going to be constantly taking pictures of everything now). Mettaton gave them a lifetime all-access pass to any MTT sponsored concerts, events or whatever the hell else (a little conceited, but still thoughtful). Napstablook humbly offered them a synth keyboard, and barely stammered out that they should do a collab some time. Even Asriel had something; he unearthed all his best drawing supplies and wrapped them up in one box.

Then there’s your scarf. It feels pathetically meager, compared to everything else. But they literally squee (a disgusting sound that you never want to hear again as long as you live) with delight when they see it. They also strangle you in what was supposed to be a hug but just ended up being painful.

You find yourself grinning malevolently whenever they turn their back to you. They’re so clueless. This isn’t over, yet. You still have an Ace of Hearts up your sleeve.

 

 

The sun’s starting to set when everyone finally clears out, leaving you, Frisk and Asriel all sitting on the front step, now feeling rather exhausted. It was a lovely day out, today, and you almost feel it was a shame that you spent it all indoors. The sunset itself is already fantastic; oranges bleed into deep purple as the night sky tries, impatiently, to usurp the day.

“Well,” Asriel stands with a grunt, spoiling your nice quiet moment. “I should go help Mom clean up. She, um… went a little bit overboard with the decorating.”

“I’ll help, too!” Frisk _tries_ to stand, but he shuts them down.

“No you won’t,” he orders. “You’re not allowed to help anyone today. Birthday rules.”

You surmise from their pout that they aren’t fully convinced by his argument. Still, they make no further protest, and your brother returns inside, giving you a quick wink as he does so.

You guess that’s your cue. You take a deep breath, and—

“Not gonna help?” They wonder aloud, throwing you off.

“Uh. Nah,” you reply, “Azzy’s more suited to manual labor, anyway. Goats are superb pack animals, after all.”

They giggle and punch you lightly on the arm.

 

“So,” you try, throwing the word out there like you don’t know what to do with it. “…Did you have fun today?”

“Uh-huh!” They nod enthusiastically.

“That’s good,” you say, uselessly. You look over to smile at them, but can’t contain yourself when you see the way they’re dressed. They got their new hoodie, boots and scarf on, and none of them belong together whatsoever (the hoodie would almost match the scarf, if it weren’t for the fact that it was very obviously a _slightly_ different shade of purple. Leave it to Sans to miss the little details). “You look fashionable,” you choke out through a laugh.

They smile and do a half-assed flourish, flipping the scarf, curtseying the hoodie and clacking the steel toes of the boots together. “Thank you!” they sing, indifferent to your sarcasm.

“Well,” you try to get yourself back on track. “I’m glad you had fun.”

Their eyelids droop down and they grin in a shockingly smug manner that you definitely don’t recognize. “Out with it,” they demand.

“Pardon me?”

Their… _look_ … continues. You aren’t a fan of it. “You’re stalling and acting all weird. What do you want to say?”

Wow. Well, if they’re going to be like _that_ , you don’t even want to do this anymore, then. “I don’t want to say anything,” you whine.

The _look_ doesn’t relent.

You grumble. “Okay, fine. Actually, there was something that I needed to tell you.”

They tilt their head slightly to one side, and _WOW_ , now they’re cramping your style. No respect, this kid.

“Frisk…” you start simply, having not the slightest idea where you are headed. You reflect that you should have put any thought at all into what you were going to say, because you’re one word into this ‘speech’ and you already feel awkward as hell. “I… I know that I’m not always the greatest friend. I’m not as strong as Undyne, or as cheerful as Papyrus, or as smart as Alphys, or as kind as Azzy. And… you’re a lot better to me than I usually end up being to you.” You spot their weary frown, and almost slap yourself. _Without the self-loathing_. “But. You deserve to know…” You stop to take a deep breath. You can’t shake the feeling that you’re going to regret what you’re about to say for years to come.

“I am so, so lucky to have met you. I owe you my life. I can’t ever hope to repay even a fraction of all you have done for me. And… I don’t feel as though I deserve you. I don’t think I ever will. I still don’t even truly believe that this is all real, it… it just can’t be.”

You stop to take a breath again. Their face is unreadable.

“Look… I don’t know how to explain to you how much you mean to me. I can’t. If there are words for it, then I don’t know them. So, instead… Azzy and I… we managed to track down the family of the guy who made ours, and they were still in the business, after all these years. So… we got you this…”

You pull it out from your pocket, finally lifting the miniscule, omnipresent weight that’s been crushing you all day long. It glimmers in the fading light as you open your hand to show them.

Lying in your palm is a golden heart-shaped locket.

You drop it carefully into their hands, slightly shaking. It takes them a second to find the latch and open it up. Inside, on one half, it says “Best Friends Forever”. On the other side is your least favorite picture; the one Mom took of you, Frisk and Asriel they day you moved in.

They stare into their hands and say nothing.

“We… got ours changed to have the same picture, too. It isn’t much, but we felt that you were long overdue for your own.”

You hear a sort of brief gasping sound. You’re about to look around for the source when you hear it again, and realize it came from Frisk.

“Th… T-Th-Thank you,” they manage.

They’re still looking down, so they don’t see it, but you give them a warm smile. “Think nothing of it. Happy Birthday, Fr— _Oof!_ ”

They damn near knock you over and send you tumbling into one of Mom’s barely living hedges (Asgore does what he can, but sometimes, it seems like a lost cause). Their arms are wrapped uncomfortably tight around you, and their steaming face is buried into your shoulder. They’re sniffling and crying all over your favorite sweater (never mind their _brand new_ _scarf_ ), and just, fuck. It’s gross.

…But, today isn’t really about you. It’s about them. And if they want to be gross, then you suppose you can allow it, just this once.

 

 

 

You find yourself helping the cleanup operation after all. Frisk doesn’t last long after your little moment and has to be dragged off to bed early (they used the last of their energy trying to crush Asriel to death with what wouldn’t have held up as a ‘hug’ in court).

There’s no visible end to the tidying on the horizon. Asriel was right; Mom _absolutely_ went overboard with the decorating. In a good way, though.

“So,” your brother starts, throwing a crumpled paper cup onto his already full garbage bag. “How’d it go? You must have given them one heck of a speech; their eyes looked pretty misty when they walked in.”

You give a short laugh. “I improv-ed the whole thing and it came out stiff and awkward. But, well, you know Frisk. They’re a sucker for sappy bullshit.”

_“Chara Dreemurr!”_ you hear boom out from the kitchen. “Mind your tongue!”

“Sorry, Toriel!”

He laughs in your face, the smug prick. “Don’t forget the college fund,” he sing-songs, pointing to the mason jar labeled _“Chara’s Swears”_ and teeming with quarters on the other end of the room. It used to just be labeled, _“Swears”_ , but some smart-alec decided to add a cute little permanent-marker addendum to it and you’ll lodge the whole jar firmly up his ass if you find proof.

“Bite me. I’ll get it later,” you snap, returning to garbage duty.

 

“You know,” he starts again, voice low, further distracting you from what you’re supposed to be doing. “They must have really appreciated it.” The words have a strange hook to them, like he’s expecting you to pick up on something.

“They did,” you confirm, “I don’t think they’re ever going to take that locket off.”

“Not the locket, the speech.”

You narrow your eyes. “Yeah, they appreciated that, too.”

“I bet they did,” he muses. He isn’t being very subtle, is he?

“Oh, what,” you sneer, throwing your hands to your hips. “Are you jealous?”

“A little bit.”

“I shouldn’t _have_ to tell you how much I care about you,” you say, dropping your own bag and crossing your arms. “You should simply _know_ by now.”

He shrugs. “It’d still be nice to hear.”

“Alright, fine,” you take a step towards him and drop your voice to a whisper, because this is sort of a private thing. “I’ll give you the short version: I was willing to give my life for you. And if I could go back to before, knowing what I know now, the _only_ reason I wouldn’t do it again is because it ended up hurting you.”

He smiles a small, pleased smile. “There,” you conclude, “are you satisfied, you needy asshole?”

“Yeah,” he says, a horribly familiar hitch in his voice. He sniffles.

“Oh no,” you warn, “don’t you dare start crying, too. I’ve had my fill for today, thank you.”

He sniffles again, and wipes his eyes. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

It takes an extra hour and a _lot_ of garbage bags before the house is back to the way it should be. You’re pretty sure your back is going to be sore tomorrow from constantly having to bend over to pick up some random piece of party-debris, and your hands still feel sticky from soda-residue no matter how thoroughly you wash them. But, ultimately, it was one hell of a good party, and it made Frisk happy, and that’s all that matters.

…

You realize that you have no fucking idea what you’re going to do for next year.

 

 

 

 


End file.
